bodies carefully covered.

The poet was still and white. He had been found lying under a rock, in a
tiny natural cave. On a ledge near him, in some lightly-sifted snow, he
had traced with his finger:--

"I must be ill,
I've such a chill.
Here I'll die,
Nobody by.
Who'll cry?
Not I!
The bag'll be found,
It's safe and sound.
There'll be no snow
Where I shall go;
There'll be no storm,
It will be warm.
Good-night!
Good-night!"

It was good-night indeed for the poorhouse poet. In his pocket was found
a worn scrap of paper, on which was pencilled his simple creed:--

"The tickets buy
For when we die,
For where we go
We fix below.
Death clears the track;
We can't come back!

"Somehow, I guess,
If we confess,
And say, 'Forgive!'
Up there we'll live.
Conductors quail,
And kings prevail.
When God has said,
'Alive or dead,
I own that man,'
He save him can."

In Johanson there still was life. He had been found lying close to the
dead poet, as if trying to share with him his little remaining vital
warmth. The doctor, the pastor's wife, and Gull were soon doing all that
was possible to call him back to life. In a few days he was almost well,
for broken down though he was, he still had some of the vigour of his
naturally strong constitution.

The funeral was over. Johanson was apparently dozing, lying on his sofa,
now in its form for the day; while Gull and the cellar-master were
chatting together in low, whispering tones.

Gull, who had prepared the body of the poorhouse poet for interment, now
talked over all the items of the expense with evident satisfaction, and
concluded by saying, "It was a beautiful corpse. It really was a
pleasure to lay him out, he looked so sweet and quiet when it was all
done."

The cellar-master, who had been helped into a sleigh to attend, remarked
that it was a charming funeral; he did not know when he had enjoyed
himself so much as on the late occasion.

"What luck he had to come in for the bell!" said Gull; "he was just in
the nick of time. It was really quite a grand funeral, with the three
coffins--the baby and the old woman and our young man--and the mourners
for all. The pastor did it beautiful too, and the bell sounded so
solemn. It is, of course, another thing when the big bell is rung for
some high body that is carried out. We may be thankful